


Very Slightly, Microscopically, Infinitesimally Worried

by distortedrain



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Airplanes, Boys In Love, But It Switches Focus, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Fluff, Husbands, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Probably ooc, Slice of Life, Snippets, Yuri Plisetsky-centric, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-07 08:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10356783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distortedrain/pseuds/distortedrain
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky observes love from afar (but not that far).For the prompt: "Just everyone's favorite husbands being cute."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LetTheButterbeerFlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetTheButterbeerFlow/gifts).



> Un-beta'd. 
> 
> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; all characters belong to the original creators.

Yuri Plisetsky looked as though someone had dipped their fingers in greyish-purple paint and had swiped it beneath his eyes. His hair, usually shiny, was dull and limp and messy. 

“You look tired, Yura,” Yakov said as soon as Yuri set foot on the ice. “Where are Yuuri and Vitya?”

“Still at home,” Yuri explained, and Yakov did not miss the way he called Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment _home_. “Those morons kept me up all night.”

“Were they fighting?”

“Who cares?” Yuri grunted. 

“Why don’t you sleep at our place anymore?”

“Katsudon makes better food.” It wasn’t a lie. Yuuri’s katsudon was his favourite, and it was exponentially better when fused with his grandfather’s pirozhkis (Yuri had gotten the pork cutlet bowl-pirozhki recipe off of his grandfather and had forced Yuuri to cook them for him; ever since, Yuri had prefered dining with him and his husband, Viktor, despite how annoying he found them). But that wasn’t the primary reason. The truth was that—and he would never admit it to _anyone_ —Viktor and Yuuri were simply good company. Especially more so than Yakov and his ex-wife. 

Yakov’s mouth twisted into a frown, but he said nothing more.

“But,” Yuri said thoughtfully, “I did hear Katsudon mention leaving.” 

“Leaving?” 

“Maybe he finally got sick of Viktor,” Yuri speculated. “I know I have.”

With that, Yuri skated away.

* * *

Yuri was still skating circles around the rink by the time Viktor and Yuuri arrived. They weren’t acting as they normally did, though. No, instead they were bickering. _Actually, they’re fighting_ , Yuri reminded himself. He skated towards the edge of the rink as the new arrivals sat down together on the benches and began lacing their skates up. He gripped a rink board with one hand and grasped a raised foot with the other, feigning adjusting his skates as he listened to the couple’s conversation. 

“—I have to go, Viktor,” Yuuri said firmly in heavily accented English. 

“I know," Viktor sighed. He had already finished putting on his skates and had seized his husband’s arm, though the husband in question was still hunched over and tying the laces on his own skates. 

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri raised his head slightly to deliver a pointed glare in Viktor’s direction. “Stop shaking me.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Viktor sighed. The idiot probably hadn’t even realised he had been doing it. “We’ll talk about this later, right?”

“Yes.”

The younger Yuri decided to skate away before he was caught eavesdropping, though a great frown had settled on his lips.

* * *

Yuri was growing more and more irate by the minute. He had been in the rink all morning. His blond hair had slickened up with sweat enough that it had stuck to his neck, which had forced him to put it up into ponytail. Even worse was that was the way that Yakov wouldn’t get off his back. —“That was sloppy, Yura!” Yakov would shout after Yuri landed a jump. Yuri didn’t bother saying anything back, though his scowl did grow deeper every time he heard Yakov say anything along those lines. But even worse than _that_ was the way that Viktor kept giving Yuuri these longing looks—quite frankly _disgusting_ longing looks if Yuri did say so himself. 

After a solid few hours of skating while watching Viktor cast those sad, yearning looks in Yuuri’s direction, Yuri was just about ready to tear both of their heads off. With the intention of doing just that, he skated towards them. 

“Yurio,” Viktor greeted. But Yuri cut him off immediately. 

“That’s not my name,” the youngest skater growled. 

Viktor merely gave him a patronising smile, but he conceded nonetheless, as though he couldn’t be bothered to push Yuri’s buttons. “Yura,” he corrected. 

“What’s going on with you morons?” Yuri tried to make himself sound mildly angry with a hint of curiosity thrown in, as though he was eager to know what exactly had been going on that had disturbed his practice that day. Though really—and it was another thing he would never ever admit—he just very, slightly, microscopically, _infinitesimally_ worried about the state of Yuuri and Viktor’s relationship. 

“Uhhhh,” Viktor said eloquently. 

“Spit it out, old man.” His voice carried a fond irritation, a quality it held only when he spoke to those he—well—cared about. It took a mere moment of awkward silence for Yuri to realise that Viktor would remain taciturn on the matter. “Katsudon,” Yuri said instead. The Japanese skater had always been easier to squeeze secrets out of. 

The man in question’s head jerked up to meet the blond skater’s eyes. “O-oh—nothing, really,” he stuttered. 

“Yurio,” Viktor said with a patient smile. 

Yuri growled again but paid no mind to correcting the silver-haired man. He had far more salient things to talk about. He pointed a slender finger right in Yuuri’s face. “You are not leaving him,” he said resolutely. “And you—” Yuri turned and jabbed that same rigid finger into Viktor’s sternum “—don’t be such a dumb-ass and maybe he won’t even want to leave you in the first place.” 

“What?” Victor said dumbly. His face slackened. 

Despite the rather insensitive statement, Yuuri smiled. It wasn’t often that Yuri showed some type of affection, much less concern for the state of their relationship and whether or not it ended in shambles. The young boy was typically the quintessential misanthropic, cavalier, antipathic, grumpy _teenager_ , though Yuuri knew that the aversion that Yuri displayed was a mere facade—at least, it was partially a facade. There was truth to the front Yuri put up, but it wasn't like he hated them so much as he _acted_ like he did. 

“Yura,” Yuuri said, a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, “I think this is just a misunderstanding.” 

“ _No_ , I heard you,” Yuri said, and it almost sounded like he was accusing the two skaters of something. 

“ _Heard_ us?” Yuuri asked. For a brief moment, perplexion crossed his face, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and was replaced by the benign smile that was habitually there. “Heard us say what?”

“That—that you were _leaving_ him, you moron!”

“Leaving him?” The baffled look returned, though it was vignetted with mirth. “I’m not leaving him.” 

“Then what the hell were you talking about before?” Yuri’s face was growing redder and redder by the second, though whether it was because of embarrassment or anger was beyond him. He chose to believe it was the latter. 

“Oh, well. . .” Yuuri grew nearly as red as Yuri was. “I need to go back to Japan.” 

“Why?” Yuri’s voice was unexpectedly softer.

“My mom. . .” 

Yuri bit his lip, ambivalent about voicing his thoughts. “She’s not. . . _dead_ , is she?” he asked tentatively. 

A loud laugh burst from Yuuri’s mouth because _wow_ , was that tactless, but it carried that special brand of Yuri-Cares-But-He-Doesn’t-Know-How-To-Express-It. “No, she’s not,” Yuuri said, still smiling. “She’s just a bit sick.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Yuri said carelessly. “If she was 'a bit sick', you wouldn’t be going to see her.” He paused, acknowledging the look of dejectedness on Yuuri’s face. “Why don’t you just take Viktor with you?”

“I can’t go,” Viktor explained. “I still have a lot of work to do on _all three _of our programs and—”__

“You stupid geezer. Your husband’s mom is sick and you want to work on our _programs_?”

“Well—"

“I told him to stay,” Yuuri interjected. “I know you two need to work on your programs.”

“You fucking _morons_ ,” Yuri seethed. “Just take me with you!”

“But. . .” Yuuri sighed. “I thought you’d want to focus on your skating.”

“There’s a rink in Hasetsu, isn’t there?”

Another laugh erupted from Yuuri, but it was more of a giggle than anything, and Yuuri’s vain effort to suppress it only incited the same untamed chortles in Viktor.

Yuri gave a single aggrieved huff and spun around. He skated for the rink’s exit and plunked down heavily on the lowest bleacher. He pulled the ponytail holder from his hair in one fluid motion and bent to undo the laces of his skates, allowing his hair to obscure his face.

Both Yuuri and Viktor followed him not a moment later. They sat down on either side of the youngest skater, and Yuuri rested a dubious hand on Yuri’s back. “You should start packing tonight,” Yuuri said.

Yuri tucked a lock of blond hair behind his ear, revealing his eyes. He peered at the Japanese skater; his eyes were unconventionally warmer, kinder. The corners of his mouth twitched in a rare smile.

* * *

_So they hadn’t been fighting_ , Yuri thought as he threw another t-shirt into his suitcase. The bag had already been half full by the time he’d come over from his _actual_ place of residence with Yakov and Lilia to Viktor and Yuuri’s place. He hadn’t realised it until now but most of his prized belongings and trinkets had made their way to the latter house. Perhaps it was the fault of his subconscious, hinting that this was more of a home to him than Lilia’s was. 

Frankly, Yuri was eager to revisit Japan. It was beautiful there; not only the scenery but the people, and he didn’t want to concede the twinge in his chest when Yuuri had mentioned his mother being ill. 

He folded away the final pair of underwear and zipped the suitcase shut. He sighed. Realising that he hadn’t eaten anything after lunch that day (and lunch had been well over seven hours ago), he made his way to the kitchen in the hopes that he’d find some leftover katsudon and a juice box—the latter were in good supply in the Katsuki-Nikiforov household since Yuri was practically a permanent resident with how much time he spent there. 

Yuri let out another sigh at the katsudon deficit (he’d checked for pirozhki too; there was none of that either), though he did find a surplus of apple juice boxes—enough to last for another few weeks. 

He wondered when the actual _adults_ in the house would be making dinner. Yuri was an unspoken member of the family. It was their damn _job_ to keep him happy and well fed. 

Yuri approached their room, slowly and carefully, his ears straining to hear any sounds that would warn him to keep away (last time he had nearly encroached on Viktor and Yuuri having sex and wasn’t _that_ just the most traumatising would-be sight ever). He heard voices are he drew nearer to their door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of them. He wasn’t usually one to snoop or listen in on a conversation; he considered it a great breach of privacy. He wouldn’t have bothered eavesdropping at all if it hadn’t been for the fact that someone had mentioned his name. 

“I’m glad he’s coming,” Yuuri said quietly. “I didn’t think he’d want to so I didn’t ask.” 

“I’m glad, too,” Viktor chimed in. 

A private, fleeting smile crossed Yuri’s lips. _He_ was glad, too. Not just because he was going to Japan with his honorary family to see his honorary extended family, but—excuse the sudden overflow of sentimentality—because he actually _had_ an honorary family. For so long, he had only ever had his grandfather, and perhaps Yakov. Even though he’d known Viktor for years, the older man had never been more than a rinkmate and an idol; never a friend. Now he was a friend, and implicitly, family. And so was Yuuri (and Yuuri’s family). 

“I can’t believe he thought I was leaving you,” Yuuri continued with a breathy laugh. “Don’t you think he’s known me long enough to realise that that would never, _ever_ happen?” 

There was a faint sound of rustling, like fabric chafing against fabric, that Yuri assumed was the pair of them hugging. Then came Viktor’s voice, thick, muffled, presumably by Yuuri’s shoulder or chest: “Sometimes I’m not even sure of that.” 

Yuri didn’t know if he wanted to puke or to barge into the room and slap Viktor silly. How could he not see how ineffably enamored that idiot Katsudon was with him? Perhaps Viktor was the bigger idiot after all. Yuri sometimes wondered, in moments of vulnerability, or after all those times that he had caught either Viktor or Yuuri doing something ridiculously sweet and sappy for the other, if he would ever have somebody like that. But at this stage in his life, he couldn’t really fathom growing up, finding someone, retiring. He was really quite happy exactly where he was. 

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri said softly. Then, after a beat, “I’m not sure of it either. About you.”

“Haven’t I reminded you enough?” Viktor asked with a wry laugh. “I’m not going anywhere. I _married_ you, for God’s sake.”

Yuri left after that.

* * *

Yuri found that he didn’t hate flying economy as he thought he would have. The food was more or less the same (and he had enjoyed a delectable lemon cake), and though Viktor had once mentioned feeling discomfort, Yuri had had no such experience. In fact, he was quite comfortable leaning on Yuuri and sharing his earbuds as they watched a movie together, and, all the while, Viktor remained asleep with his head lolled back and mouth just barely open. _What an idiot_ , Yuri thought every time he glanced at the sleeping silver-haired man. _If he had any brains at all, he would know that putting his pillow on his food tray and sleeping on that wouldn’t give him that neck ache he keeps complaining about._

The blond boy checked the time on his cellphone (which Yuuri had reminded him at least a dozen times to put on airplane mode). With the different time zone it mind, Yuri estimated that the sun would be rising by the time they landed at the airport, and would be fully up by the time their train reached Hasetsu. 

The smallest yawn breezed past his lips, but it didn’t escape Yuuri’s notice. “You should sleep,” the Japanese man told him. 

Yuri would have objected but his eyes were already falling shut.

* * *

The back of Yuri’s eyelids were black, which either meant that the sun had yet to come up or that the window shades hadn’t been opened yet; he surmised that he had at least another hour left. The rumble of the plane’s engine was strong beneath him, and strangely pacifying. He didn’t exactly know why, but if he hazarded a guess, he would have said it was like a nice, constant ass massage. 

Yuuri and Viktor were holding hands across his lap. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but he could feel the weight on his thigh. He was curled into one of them and had his head on one of their shoulders—it was Yuuri, seeing as he was turned to his right. They were also talking again, though not about him, this time. If anyone asked Yuri, he would have told them that it was all just inane, nauseating bullshit. 

Yuri cracked a single eye open just enough to make out the linked hands on his leg. He hand coming from the right—Yuuri’s—was toying with the gold band of the hand at his left—Viktor’s—twirling it about the slender finger it was on. 

“Can you believe we’re married?” Yuuri asked shyly. He slid the ring back down to the base of VIktor’s finger and took the entire hand in his own and held it loosely. 

“Not really,” Viktor replied. “When we first met—sort of—after the final, and I asked you for that picture. . .I thought you hated me or something, when you said no. And then you came and danced with the other skaters, with Yurio, with me. . .I didn’t know what to think.” 

“Yeah?” Yuuri said weakly. 

“Yeah. I don’t know when I fell in love with you but I think I started when I saw you at that banquet.” 

Yuri wanted to throw up—he couldn’t _believe_ how fucking sappy those two acted sometimes. 

“Viktor!” came Yuuri’s flustered voice. “You can’t—you can’t just say that!”

“Yes, I can, lyubov moya,” Viktor sang, and _oh_ , that was just _revolting_. 

“When you first came to Hasetsu, I was scared to be near you, did you know?”

“I could tell,” Viktor deadpanned. 

Yuuri gave a dry chuckle. “I’ll tell you one day. About that day after the finals when we first met.” Yuuri paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was with renewed interest. “You know what else I can’t believe? Yura _doesn’t_ hate me.” Yuri had to bite down on his lip to quell a laugh at that. “I first met him right after the final, just before I met you. I was crying in the washroom and he kicked the door in and screamed at me to retire. And then the year after that, he told me—after we had left for the hotel—that he had to win to keep me from retiring.” 

Yuri felt a tender hand tuck away behind his ear the hair that had fallen over his face. 

“And now,” Yuuri continued, “he’s sleeping on me.”

“Yura has changed a lot since he’s met you,” Viktor apprised his husband. “He’s still. . .Yura. . .but he doesn’t really mean most of the nasty things he says.” 

It was yet another thing that Yuri would never go so far as to confess aloud, but it was true. It was true in its entirety.

* * *

Yuri was being shaken awake. His eyes opened; one glance out the window told him that the plane had landed, though that was evident by the way that people were pulling their carry-ons from the overhead compartments. 

He noticed that Viktor had taken his own bag down along with Yuri’s. People were slowly filing out of the plane. A few moments after Yuri stood up, Yuuri gripped his wrist and pulled him into the aisle. The Japanese man prodded Yuri to move ahead of him; the latter complied, too groggy and muddled with sleep to complain or argue. He moved, albeit listlessly, to the front of the plane with Yuuri’s hand on his back, gently pushing him onward. 

“Where’s my bag?” Yuri ask tiredly as entered the tube leading away from the plane. 

“I’ve got it,” Viktor said from ahead of him. He held Yuri’s backpack up for him to see but made no move to pass the bag to its owner. 

Yuri nodded his thanks. He slowed his pace, allowing Yuuri to pass him and catch up with Viktor. The latter slung Yuri’s backpack over his shoulder and transferred the wheeled carry-on to his left hand, allowing his (now free) right hand to grasp Yuuri’s left. 

Yuri allowed himself a secret smile.

* * *

“Yura must have been tired,” Yuuri said, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. From his open suitcase, he snatched a fresh t-shirt and donned it. 

Viktor already occupied the bed and soon enough, Yuuri buried himself under the covers next to him. The sheets and pillow were cool, but Viktor’s body, Yuuri noted when he was pulled against it by Viktor’s arms, was equivalent to a human furnace even though he was wearing nothing but sweatpants. He sighed quietly, the faintest of smiles turning up his lip as he threaded an affectionate hand through Viktor’s fringe. 

Yuuri felt something blossom in him, an intense feeling of _something_. It swelled in his chest; a sensation of fondness, intimacy, _love_ for Viktor that had lain dormant all day. His motions were slow and languid as he carded his fingers through his husband’s soft, silver locks, gently scraping his blunt nails against his scalp in a way he knew Viktor loved. 

As anticipated, Viktor’s eyes fell shut, and if Yuuri hadn’t been in such close proximity to him, he wouldn’t have heard the miniscule hitch in his breath. 

“We’ll go to the hospital tomorrow?” Viktor asked, angling his body so that his face fit into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. 

“Yeah,” came Yuuri’s reply, sad and soft. His hand fell away from Viktor’s fringe and moved to the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Viktor exhaled. Yuuri dragged a single finger down the length of Viktor’s spine, tracing patterns at its base. 

“Your hands are cold,” Viktor said. His words were stifled but Yuuri heard them all the same. 

“It tickles when you talk.” Viktor raised his head and gave Yuuri a questioning look, prompting Yuuri to clarify: “It vibrates.”

“Oh,” Viktor said, and he tucked his head back where it was before. Yuuri could feel him laughing. 

“Quit it!” Yuuri giggled. He detached himself from Viktor and moved to the other side of the bed, his back turned to the other man. Not that that put Viktor off at all because an instant later, strong arms circled Yuuri’s waist and tugged him back, and Viktor rested his chin back on Yuuri’s shoulder once more.

* * *

There was a kink in Yuuri’s neck when he awoke. It was only mildly sore—though he had had his fair share of nasty aches in the morning (and not just in his neck). His cheek was pressed to a smooth, warm surface; he imagined that was Viktor’s chest. Viktor’s long arm was draped over his middle, and his other, Yuuri observed when he had opened his eyes, was folded under Viktor’s head. Yuuri figured that _Viktor_ would probably have a kink in his neck, too. 

They were curled into one another in a way that would make it extremely difficult detangle their limbs. Yuuri’s thigh was between both of Viktor’s, and one of the latter’s legs was hooked over Yuuri’s knee and wrapped around it, his calf slotted between Yuuri’s own. 

It could have been an hour after Yuuri woke up that Viktor himself roused. Yuuri wouldn’t have even noticed Viktor’s stirring (because Yuuri was not particularly vigilant in the morning; he hadn’t even noticed Viktor’s sudden deep breath when he had first woken) if the older man hadn’t begun stroking his bare arm with his soft fingers. 

Yuuri’s eyes lifted to meet Viktor’s deep blue ones, which were watching him lazily under hooded lids. “Good morning,” Yuuri said sweetly. 

Viktor blinked the sleep from his bleary eyes. “Good morning, lyubov moya.” 

Yuuri decided right then that Viktor’s voice, rough from sleep, was undeniably sexy. Viktor’s smile—it was more of a smirk, to be precise—was as lazy as his gaze and as sexy as his voice. Yuuri couldn’t help himself; he raised a his hand and brushed a thumb over Viktor’s bottom lip, just as Viktor had done the first time he had come to Hasetsu. 

Viktor stare, though it had been lax only moments ago, now carried a hint of lust, desire. Yuuri gripped Viktor’s shoulder and pulled himself to within an inch of Viktor’s lips. Viktor craned his neck down and close the space between them.

* * *

They were back at the onsen after having visited Hiroko in the hospital. She was doing well, and would doubtlessly recover within the next few weeks. The news had barely lifted Yuuri’s spirits, though, and Viktor couldn’t bear to keep watching Yuuri walk around with that slump in his back and that crestfallen expression on his face. As Yuuri’s husband, it was his duty to remedy his downcast mood and to rid him of his anguish. 

Words had never been much of a comfort to Yuuri, much less Viktor’s (who was not very good with words in the first place). Without Makkachin around to provide a wholesome, heart-lifting, furry cuddle, Viktor was left with only one method to fulfill Operation Cure-Yuuri’s-Heartbreak: a distraction. This modus operandi was effective on most people and more importantly, effective on Yuuri himself. Viktor gave himself a figurative pat on the back. 

Yuuri, who had not eaten all day, was in his bedroom. Viktor rapped on the closed door with his knuckles and called, “Yuuri? Can I come in?” 

Yuuri’s reply was barely audible, but Viktor heard the affirmation all the same. He opened the door but didn’t step through it, opting for just leaning against the door frame. He stared at his wrung hands, gathering his wits. Then, he looked up, meeting Yuuri’s sad doe-eyes. 

“I was thinking,” Viktor began, “Maybe you can teach me to make katsudon.” Yuuri’s eyebrows shot up, and Viktor’s resolve wavered. “You don’t have to, of course, it was just a thought—”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Yuuri asserted. His voice was far stronger, far steadier than Viktor would have thought. 

With a hand on small of Viktor’s back, Yuuri guided him to the kitchen. He directed him with patience as he cooked, pointing out the correct ingredients, correcting his technique, and eventually—and this was when Viktor considered his endeavor a success—tossing half a handful of uncooked rice straight into Viktor’s hair. 

Viktor shook his head and ruffled his hair, dislodging any remaining grains of rice. He fixed Yuuri with a deadly glare and, without warning, threw himself at him, catching him around the waist and digging his fingers into Yuuri’s most ticklish spots. 

Yuuri, unable to control himself, erupted into laughter, though shrieking and convulsing might have been more appropriate terms. Viktor was laughing, too. Eventually, his fingers ceased, and he simply held Yuuri in the middle of the kitchen, swaying them gently as though that would stave off Yuuri’s sadness. 

“I love you, zvezda moya," Viktor murmured. 

“I love you, too.” Yuuri’s arms encircled Viktor’s torso; his head dropped onto Viktor’s shoulder. “I know what you’re doing. This cooking thing—I know it’s a distraction.”

Viktor was thankful that Yuuri couldn’t see his face because his cheeks were rushing with blood. “Well. . .” Viktor tried.

“Thank you,” Yuuri said kindly. He pulled his arms back and slid his (admittedly cold) hands under Viktor’s shirt. “Do you want to keep making the katsudon?”

“Yes,” Viktor said immediately, relieved that Yuuri appreciated his efforts. “Once I master this I’m going to make it for you and Yura all the time.” He paused. Then added, “Speaking of Yura—will you teach me the how to make pirozhki pork cutlet bowls, too? I know he’d love that.” 

Yuri walked past the kitchen just as his name was mentioned. Viktor smiled at him, and Yuri, his eyes sweeping over the hugging couple before meeting Viktor's own eyes, offered a shy smile in return before walking away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my catastrophic attempt at fulfilling the objective I was tasked with which was to hit the prompt on the mark but also not at all; I think I got the first part of that down but the second part seems like a pretty cosmic failure to me. Hopefully that can be overlooked. Comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
